Copyright © 2020
by Ralph F. Couey
One afternoon, about eight months ago, I showed up at work and was told by my supervisor that I would be moving to the midnight shift. This announcement caused me a lot of angst. I was, and still am, the primary caregiver to my 93-year-old mother-in-law, who is a delightful person, very easy to love, but suffering the downward slide of dementia. Working evenings, I was able to be home for her for most of the day, only leaving her alone for a couple of hours during a time of day when she was usually napping. This meant a total re-ordering of my responsibilities, and not knowing at all how this was going to affect her care.
I've worked nights before, in the Navy and during any number of the jobs I've held over the years. Never been my favorite shift, but I had signed a contract stating that I would be available for any and all shifts as assigned. So, manfully shouldering my new schedule, I flipped my days.
Working nights means sleeping during the days, something I've always found difficult. I get sleep after a fashion, but I never feel rested and alert, and that fatigue becomes cumulative over time. My new supervisor has been on that shift for nearly 15 years, so its become second nature for her, a fact of which I was secretly envious. The good news is that she was also a caregiver, so she knew how hard this dual life could be.
It took me a week or two to finally reach some kind of equilibrium, although I never really fully adjusted. And I found that this new life did affect the care I could provide. Now, having to retire by noon, she had to be left unattended for a lot longer time. I worried constantly about what was happening with her while I was (trying to) sleep in the back bedroom.
My fears were justified when one day, on my off day, Thank God, she was outside picking up leaves when she lost her balance and struck her head on a paving brick. She snuck back inside the house, trying to hide her injury. I found her in one of the back rooms with a new bandage on her head, already soaked through with blood. She angrily refused my attempts to help, so I kinda had to go all Chief Petty Officer on her. Peeling the bandage away, I saw a gash that when all the way to the bone. I immediately put her in the car to go to the hospital. I turned back to lock the front door, only to see her climbing out of the car, claiming she was perfectly fine. We did finally get to the hospital and at the sight of the aides approaching the car with a wheelchair, she became perfectly compliant. It took a while to finally get a hold of one of the family. Being only the son-in-law, I was not legally empowered to authorize care. To make a long story short, she came home with a new collection of stitches.
But, I grieved, what if that had happened while I was asleep? Stubborn is her middle name, along with prideful, and she would not have come to get me to help. When I returned to work, I spoke to my boss and asked...no...shamelessly begged and pleaded to be returned to evenings. Given the number of of people working and some other situations, it wasn't possible yet.
Now, I do get a "weekend" in that I have two days off, but it's usually in the middle of the week. Being on nights, it gets complicated. I get off in the morning, and have that day free, as I didn't have to be back in that night. But errands and chores add up, so I spent most of that first day attending to those responsibilities, and watching over mom. I couldn't even lay down for a couple hours because I was afraid I wouldn't wake up. The next day was really my only day off, since it was bracketed by a full nights sleep on both ends. But the accumulated fatigue of the previous five days and 24 hours without sleep made me feel like a zombie. I was tired all day, and really didn't have the energy to tackle anything ambitious. The day after was technically my day off, but since I had to go to work that night, I had to lose half of that day to the necessary task of sleeping. And so the weeks passed.
I don't think I ever really found my rhythm, and that was the albatross I carried around on my back for eight long months. Finally, things changed enough to where I could make the move back, and this has been my first week on evenings again. Sleeping now comes naturally, at night. I no longer have to resort to sleep aids. And on my days off, I am awake and fully functional, and have the energy to tackle what needs to be done. I'm also more alert as to what that sweet little old lady is up to, and better able to monitor her activities, including making sure she eats well and on time.
I know this seems horribly parochial, even selfish as there are too many other folks out there who are dying to work under any circumstances. But its nice nonetheless that when the clock shows all zeroes, my day is over instead of just beginning. I've rediscovered just how much fun this job is, and having labored through a lot of endless nights over the past eight months, I can finally enjoy life as it was meant to be lived.
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